Page 19 of Promise Me

My breathing falls back to normal just as Linc and a doctor rush into the room.

“I’m fine,” I say, my eyes still on Hudson. “Thank you.”

He nods, letting my hand go, and then slowly backs up to the door.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll give you all some space.”

He turns quickly, passing through the doorway just as my dad comes in.

I hate Hudson. I know I do, but right now, I wish he’d come back.

Whatever that breathing trick was, it instantly calmed me.Hecalmed it. By the look on my dad's and brother's faces, for the first time in my life, I think I need Hudson Asher.

Dissociate amnesia.

That’s what Dr. Hyde diagnosed me with. Apparently, there is more than one type of amnesia. He spouted off a bunch of mumbo jumbo—because holy heck, medical terminology is insane and completely overwhelming—about each of them, but in the end, memory loss is what they all have in common.

I hit my head hard enough to set myself back three years.

Three years.

Three.

To a time when I’d just lost my mom, when my plans to move out and start my own business went up in flames, and when I took over my mother's bakery.

These are all things that, according to my brother—you know, a total doctor who attended the University of Google—clearly caused stress in my life. Enough stress that my fall decided, “Hey, let’s go back to before it all started.”

The brain works in mysterious ways, and I hope that the sting of forgetting the last three years will go away sooner rather than later.

I curl up on my side in the hospital bed, the lights off as silent tears roll down my cheeks.

My dad showed me pictures of where I was clearly at my mom's funeral, but I don’t remember it.

Did I tell her I loved her one last time? Did I make sure Dad was okay with everything that day? Or did Linc cry? He’s an ugly crier. I hope I brought enough tissues for everyone.

“Hey, sis,” Linc says, slowly pushing the door open. “Are you awake?”

“Yeah,” I say quietly.

Instead of using the light switch, he opens one curtain a sliver to let in some daylight but not blind me.

“How are you doing?”

“Really. That’s that what you go with?”

He groans and drops to the chair next to me. “I know. I’m sorry.”

We sit in silence for a moment.

“So, are you dating anyone?” I ask.

He gives a small, pathetic laugh.

“That’s what you pick?”

“Well,”—I toss my hands up—“I don’t want to talk about myself.”

The last time we did, I learned way too much. Three years of information to be exact. And all that did was leave me with questions.

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